Patriotic Poems

The poems shown below were forwarded via email from various sources throughout the world.  The are shown with all applicable information such as Author (if known), address and email address.  If anyone has information regarding any Unknown authors or a concern with the posting of these poems, please contact Sean Torongeau at  Anyone wishing to have their poem added to this page, please submit it to Sean Torongeau at

Poem One Poem Two Poem Three
The Flag of the United States!!!
Poem Four
His Hallowed Name
Poem Five
American Military Man
Poem Six
Liberty's Gal


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Poem One
Author - Charles Province for first 5 stanzas.

It is the soldier, not the reporter,
who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the soldier, not the poet,
who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the soldier, not the campus organizer,
who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.
It is the soldier, not the lawyer,
who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It is the soldier,
who salutes the flag,
who serves under the flag,
and whose coffin is draped by the flag,
who allows the protester to burn the flag.
A protest raged on a courthouse lawn,
Round a makeshift stage they charged on,
Fifteen hundred or more they say,
Had come to burn a Flag that day.
A boy held up the folded Flag,
Cursed it, and called it a dirty rag.
An OLD MAN pushed through the angry crowd,
With a rusty shotgun shouldered proud.
His uniform jacket was old and tight,
He had polished each button, shiny and bright.
He crossed that stage with a soldier's grace,
Until he and the boy stood face to face.
Is worth dying for, good men are dead,
So you can stand on this courthouse lawn,
And talk us down from dusk to dawn,
But before any Flag gets burned today,

My father died on a foreign shore,
In a war they said would end all war.
But Tommy and I wasn't even full grown,
Before we fought in a war of our own.
And Tommy died on Iwo Jima's beach,
In the shadow of a hill he couldn't quite reach
Where five good men raised this Flag so high,
I got this bum leg that I still drag,
Fighting for this same old Flag.
Now there's but one shot in this old gun,
So now it's time to decide which one,
Which one of you will follow our lead,
To stand and die for what you believe?
For as sure as there is a rising sun,
You'll burn in Hell Before this Flag burns, son.
Now this riot never came to pass.
The crowd got quiet and that can of gas,
Got set aside as they walked away
To talk about what they had heard this day.
And the boy who had called it a dirty rag,
Handed the OLD SOLDIER the folded Flag.
So the battle of the Flag this day was won
By a tired OLD SOLDIER with a rusty gun,
Who for one last time, had to show to some,

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Poem Two
Author - Kelly Strong
Copyright 1981 by Kelly Strong
email: Kelly Strong

  I watched the flag pass by one day 
  It fluttered in the breeze.
  A young Marine saluted it, 
  And then, he stood at ease.
  I looked at him in uniform, 
  So young, so tall, so proud;
  With hair cut square and eyes alert, 
  He'd stand out in any crowd.
  I thought how many men like him 
  Had fallen through the years?
  How many died on foreign soil? 
  How many mother's tears? 
  How many pilot's planes shot down? 
  How many died at sea? 
  How many foxholes - soldiers graves? 
  No, freedom is not free.
  I heard the sound of Taps one night, 
  When everything was still.
  I listened to the bugler play 
  And felt a sudden chill.
  I wondered just how many times 
  That Taps had meant "Amen".
  When a flag had covered a casket
  of a brother or a friend.
  I thought of all the children, 
  Of the mothers and the wives, 
  Of fathers, sons, and husbands, 
  With interrupted lives.
  I thought about the graveyard, 
  At the bottom of the sea, 
  Of unmarked graves in Arlington, 
  No -- Freedom Is Not Free!

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Poem Three
Author - Unknown

I am the flag of the United States of America.
My name is Old Glory.

I fly atop the world's tallest buildings.
I stand watch in America's halls of justice.
I fly majestically over institutions of learning.
I stand guard with power in the world.
Look up and see me.
I stand for peace, honor, truth and justice.
I stand for freedom.
I am confident.
I am arrogant.
I am proud.
When I am flown with my fellow banners,
My head is a little higher,
My colors a little truer.
I bow to no one!
I am recognized all over the world.
I am worshipped - I am saluted.
I am loved - I am revered.
I am respected - and I am feared.
I have fought in every battle of every war 
for more then 200 years.
I was flown at Valley Forge,
Gettysburg, Shiloh and Appamatox.
I was there at San Juan Hill,
the trenches of France,
in the Argonne Forest,
Anzio, Rome and the beaches of Normandy.
Guam, Okinawa, Korea and
KheSan, Saigon, Vietnam know me.
I was there.

I led my troops, I was dirty, battleworn and tired,
But my soldiers cheered me and I was proud.
I have been burned, torn and trampled on the
streets of countries I have helped set free.
It does not hurt for I am invincible.
I have been soiled upon, burned, torn and
trampled in the streets of my country.
And when it's done by those
Whom I've served in battle - it hurts.
But I shall overcome - for I am strong.
I have slipped the bonds of Earth
and stood watch over the uncharted
frontiers of space from my vantage point on
the moon.
I have borne silent witness to all of
America's finest hours.
But my finest hours are yet to come.
When I am torn into strips and used as
bandages for my wounded comrades on the battlefield,
When I am flown at half-mast to honor my soldier,
Or when I lie in the trembling arms of a grieving parent
at the grave of their fallen son or daughter,
I am proud.
Please forward my message to all who still love
and respect me that I may fly proudly
for another two hundred years.

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Poem Four
Author - Thomas G. Wroblewski, VFW Post 1146


What was his name, who fought so brave,
and gave his all for Country dear

Was he up front, at Bunker Hill, 
or one of those at Tripoli

Maybe he heard the bugle wail, 
while falling at the Alamo

Did he charge up the San Juan Hill - 
or does he sleep at Normandy

Was he the first at Pork Chop Hill - 
or did he pay the Vietnam Price

Could he have died from a rocket blast 
while serving there, at Desert Storm

His bones are laid in many lands 
and name may oft be lost in time

Along with those women true 
who gave their lives supporting him

I ask once more, what was his name - 
the answer clear, rings out to me

We all should know, for endless time, 
that "FREEDOM" is His Hallowed Name

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Poem Five
Author - Unknown


    The average age of the military man is 19 years.

    He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to die for his country.

He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father’s; but he has never collected unemployment either.

He’s a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.

He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing and 155mm Howitzers.

He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk.

He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark.

He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launch­er and use either one effectively if he must.

He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional.

He can march until he is told to stop or stop until he is told to march.

He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spir­it or individual dignity.

He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry.

He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle.

He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts. If you’re thirsty, he’ll share his water with you: if you are hungry, his food.

He’ll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.

He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life -- or take it, because that is his job.

He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay and still find ironic humor in it all. He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime.

He has stood atop mountains of dead bodies, and helped to create them.

He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed.

He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to ‘square-away’ those around him who haven’t bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful.

Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great-grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom.

Beardless or not, he is not a boy.

He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over 200 years.

He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding. Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.

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Poem Six
Author - Eric Nolan


Italian blood runs hot
Under coffee-colored African skin,
Through Vietnamese veins, fed
By a jackhammer Irish heart.

Lithe Iranian hands
Guide a Swedish skirt
Across Parisian legs.

Share an irreverent joke.
She laughs with the warmth of Canada.
Her Samoan smile comes easily.

Ask and she'll join you in
A Brazilian toast,
A Vatican prayer,
Old Arabian verses
Or Norwegian song.

Argue, if you like. 
She is prone to opinions and forgiving of dissent.
Her Japanese adherence to honor
Is expressed with British civility.

She's used to disagreement,
And she'll answer back  --
Greek logic and Chinese wisdom
Are equally at her command.

But don't touch her.  Never arouse
Her Spanish temper.
Her German sense of purpose.
Her Russian tolerance for grief.
Her Colombian notions of vengeance.

Never arouse
Her Australian, white-knuckled toughness.
Her Native American will
To guard the dirt at her toes.
Her Puerto Rican sense
Of protection of kin.

Never arouse
Her Afghan memory,
Her Israeli flair for reprisal.
She's wont to undertake
A Mexican vendetta.

And if aroused, nothing can deter her:

Not illness in envelopes.
Not zealots in caves.
Not soot-colored cities or glass in the streets.

Not desert alchemy,
Or the asymmetric threat
Of a holocaust virus,

Not the grimace of a gap-toothed skyline,
Or silence in engine-less skies
As vast iron birds -- once as commonplace as swallows --
Are felled to the ground.

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